Write My Name & Keep It Close
by CathyKing
Summary: Pride and Prejudice AU: Everyone is born with the name of their soul mate written on the palm of their hand, but only their soul mate can read the name. Elizabeth's hatred of the notion veils how lonely she really feels.
1. Part One

_**Write My Name & Keep It Close. **_

_**AN**__: I'm sorry I changed the idea around. They basics are still the same. They just meet differently, and it plays out slightly more tensely. _

Pride and Prejudice AU: Everyone is born with the name of their soul mate written on the palm of their hand, but only their soul mate can read the name. Elizabeth's hatred of the notion veils how lonely she really feels.

—X—

**Part I  
**

The first time she steps into his office it's like walking into a grotto. Or, as a young girl going to someone's house and falling violently, and stomach flaringly in love with their room. (Wishing, wanting it to be _yours_)  
How unfair life is.

The walls, except the glass wall overlooking London (the rushes of cabs and the ripples of light wrapping themselves around the water – shielded by the weak winter sunrise (which flicks dusky light into his hair, but she will never mention that)), are mounted with layer after layer of short pine bookshelves filled with books. Every book that the company has ever published (Half a wall dedicated to his favourites (hers will one day be among them)).

He sits behind his desk, his lean frame gliding with the material of his grey suit.  
Two swans swimming and fitting into all the gaps made for each other.  
She stands in the door frame, her mattered leather shoulder bag clasped against her chest. His eyes flick up (his desk faces away from the window – he's not able to work if he faces the world) and sees her.  
She feels so young, so small under his watchful brown eyes.

"I'm Elizabeth Bennet" She starts slowly, advancing and turning to shut the door to hide the deep flush working its way up into her cheeks.

"I know. We've met"  
They have met, a number of times, and never for very long. He is Charlie's best friend, and the boyfriend's best friend and the girlfriend's sister cross paths occasionally. She always thought him busy and handsome and he thought her always young and intelligent (_her green eyes flickering everywhere, electrifying to his through the white snowy curls that glisten between them). _

She glances back over at him, noticing the corners of his mouth prick up into the smile she's only ever heard about – but never witnessed. He's standing and walking towards her, continuing the charade of her making. She thinks it's to tease, to probe – but he can feel the tension from her shoulders, the nerves in the hand clasping in his – and he wants to help (to soothe).

She shakes his hand, glancing down at his strong hands. Both of his palms are wrapped in two dark bands, concealing (protecting himself) from the waiting mark.  
The mark that is ready, so so ready to be seen and cherished. (And it wants to burn and ignite the material and reach, _reach _for his partner)  
But he has never been able to reveal his palm – invisible and disinteresting to most, except one. He's never been able to take the chance, the leap.

"Fitzwilliam Darcy"

Their hands contract and relax like a pumping muscle. He gestures for her to sit, stepping back around his desk to settle opposite her. She perches awkwardly, a bird on alert – staring into the face of the suave cat – and he leans forwards, examining.

"Thank you for hiring me" She offers after an agonising silence. The words ripping out of her throat. And he just sits at his desk and watches.  
Watches as if he _knows _all her secrets, sucking them into his dark eyes.  
And it's _terrifying. _

"I owed Charles a favour" He glances away from her, and she knows that his hands are tied. It's not her ability; it's his friendship which is keeping her here. The drop and the scuttle is only brief before his eyes are on hers again. "What have they told you about working for me?"

"That you promised you wouldn't fire me on my first day; even though I know _nothing _about being someone's secretary"

He tilts his head in her direction, his lips tilting up in the lilting smile again. "Ever consider buying a book on it?"

"I don't like it when books patronise me"

The volte.

Darcy's head moves to its straight position again and his lips part in a small sigh. He always knew she was difficult. The young were always difficult, and she would be extra so.  
He had intended it as a joke, and she _knew _that (of course she did, and she doesn't understand _why _she bit back).

"Listen, Elizabeth –"

"Most people call me Lizzie" She offers it as consolation. Only her family and friends call her Lizzie, but she needs him to be easy again.  
Even if she knew he, too, could be blunt and uneasy – she doesn't _want _him to feel a divide from her.  
She doesn't know why, but she _aches _for that understanding.

She needs him to understand that this is it. Them. They are equal – even if they're not on the surface. She can feel something crunching and clenching underneath everything.  
A drumming and a pounding – unable to reveal itself. Without a source and without a name.  
It's too weak yet to ring alarm bells, but it causes a reaction.  
An instantaneous reaction to soothe and equalise.

"I'm not one for nick-names… Listen, you'll be fine. We'll work things out. My last secretary was a battle-axe so I'm thankful for _any _kind of change"  
Darcy is young – Elizabeth knows he is young. His face is still young – his hair thick (Shining in the dusky light – but she'll never tell him), cut stylishly (from old money. Bringing in new money). Everything about him is crisp, sharp.  
His eyes, though.  
His eyes hold something that isn't worked upon; his eyes hold something that he can't (_won't_) work upon. His eyes, the hazel, dark, flickering, honey, (she could write a list and never know the colour), orbs give away something different.  
Darker.  
Older.

"Jane told me you want to write, so I know you're probably not going to be around long" He sits back into his chair – and watches her face twist, ever so slightly; wondering whether to deny it – or to let it pass.

"I wouldn't just up and leave –"

"I know, but you _will _leave. That's okay"

He is right. Jane is right. This was never her ambition – a secretary to some business man, not even Fitzwilliam Darcy (who was just about a girl's model dream). She needs the money, desperately. Charlotte, fellow cynic, flatmate, found her soul mate. She saw her mark on him and that was that, gone forever. To _Kent. _She left a bitter taste in Elizabeth's mouth. Her hypocrisy spinning in front of her eyes. She had once professed that PDA was 'plain wrong' – and now she spent her days with Collin, as he sucks marks onto her jaw and she gasps quietly. _  
_Her mother had been pestering her to get a job, _writers never succeeded. Waste of time, Lizzie.  
Waste of time. _  
Her father had been there, defending her. (He owned a few book shops. Dabbled in writing). After dinner Jane had pulled her aside, offering to talk Charlie into speaking to Darcy.  
It's Darcy Publishing. She could go far.  
'Once you're in you're _in'.  
_

"I must be your worst nightmare. Fresh out of university, inexperienced –"

"Headstrong, stubborn" He offers, his head tilts again – the sun shines onto the side of his face, marking it, Elizabeth wonders (_secretly) _if it is unprofessional to reach and trace the sun-speckled skin.

"At least I'm not _mean" _She barbs teasingly in response. He smiles at her. Properly for the first time (she'll _never _forget that. The tilt, the flash. The comfort).

"At least there's that. This place is a nightmare, it's always so busy and people always want me for something"

"You _are _the head of the company"

"I guess that explains that then" Sarcasm – she recognises it, and it suits him like the suit he's wearing. "What I mean is, you're going to be really busy – and things will start to pile up. Don't worry, and whatever you do, don't allow yourself to panic. If you're stuck in any way; come and see me. I may rip into you at the time – but that's because I get stressed really easily, and I get sassy when I'm stressed"

She sits up a little straighter, resting an arm on the dark oak desk with a genuine smile. She feels, really feels it now, that she may be okay here. If she can survive the first day (_Eight hours left. Seven with lunch) _then she feels she can survive the rest.  
"Thank you… I – I should really get back to work. I left Jane to hold the fort whilst I was talking to you"

He nods: "Good luck" She feels it's the indication to stand and leave him. She gets up slowly, pushing her skirt back into place with the palms of her hand and turns towards the door. Shooting him a smile but he's already turned to his work – his attention immediately away as he flicks and searches.

She's almost at the door when he stops her.  
"Oh! Will you get me thirty copies of this presentation…? Don't look like that – I like to do things the old way"

"You've never even touched a kindle, have you?"

"Not once. The machine, more commonly known as the beast, is just around the corner. If you can work how to use it, you can do anything"

He holds out the paper. She takes in with her left hand.  
On her palm he sees very clearly two words:

_Fitzwilliam Darcy. _


	2. Part Two

**Write My Name & Keep It Close**

**AN: **To clear up, because I changed the idea. _Only_ the soul mate can see their name on the other's hand. So only Darcy knows that they're soul mates. Elizabeth doesn't know because she can't see his palms, and he didn't say anything.  
Soul mates do not have to be in a romantic relationship to get satisfaction.  
Wickham has his soul-mate from a young age. He never tricks Georgiana, and so Darcy and he hold on to each other.

—X—

**Part II **

Elizabeth learns quickly that Darcy was right. More right than she gave him credit for. Her time quickly becomes divided into thick chunks – and the biggest, most stressful chunk for the both of them is Darcy's accessibility.  
Elizabeth's main source of human contact, besides Darcy (And the agonising lunch times with Charlie and Jane), are the conversations at her desk. People requesting access to Darcy. If they were lucky, and their name was on the list – they had it.

Darcy had devised a system very early on. Everybody he crossed paths with went onto one of three lists that he sent to Elizabeth. (_This is how I filter out who has access to me. This will be your bible.  
Honestly, thank me later_).

To Fitzwilliam Darcy you are either:  
Always-Welcome (_Just send them through_).  
Depends-On-The-Situation (_Phone me first_).  
Never-Let-In. (_I am indisposed. If that doesn't work I'm at a funeral. If that doesn't work create a diversion and ditch them_).

And the man stood in front of her was on that last list.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wickham, but Mr. Darcy is unable to see you right now" Elizabeth's eyes scan the list again, and yes, George Wickham is at the very top of the Never-Let-In list. His name is in bold, just for emphasis. The man standing before her is tall, not too dissimilar to Darcy (Although he's nothing like him. Elizabeth knows he's not. He cannot be.  
There's something ethereal about Darcy which she'll never be able to jar)

Wickham leans over the desk, trying to see the spread-sheet. She closes it quickly, her eyes turning up to him – in an expression of dangerous innocence she's been able to learn. (It amuses Darcy when he sees, and sends something warm shooting down her neck. Unwanted warmth. She's not like that. Can't be like that.) "Am I still on that damn 'never let in' list?"

"Ho -?" She catches herself "If you would like to leave a message, I can…" She's pushing a pad of post-it notes towards him. A pack of four colours (Yellow, Pink, Orange, and Green. Although she wishes Green is on the top), the standard Darcy Publishing ones revolt her, and hers were in the bin before her first working hour was up. Darcy wasn't angry – he was too pre-occupied to notice meeting notifications lighting up his desk in a childish rainbow.

Wickham further, discarding the post-it notes, his palms going flat either side of her hole-punch. He knows he's intimidating her, he wouldn't have dared tried this with Darcy's last – but this girl is new, and fresh, and doesn't understand. He enjoys the tease, the torment before he lets them go and away again. (The work play, like a cat catching a mouse between its claws and sinking its teeth just shy of death)

"Listen, Miss. Bennet, that list is a joke – and I really need to speak to Darcy. So if you would be so kind as to let me…" His tone is clipped, polite.  
Victorian morals.

"I'm _sorry_, but Mr. Darcy can't see you at present"  
Elizabeth stands her ground, even though this man scares her. He's tall and too close.  
She stands her ground because Darcy _asks _her to do this. To follow these rules.  
Wickham is bitter. And Darcy is smooth.  
He glides and instructs, helpfully, teasingly and it's comforting. It's something she leans towards; learnt to avoid confrontation but wallows in hopeless longing. (Aching for him to take her, to spin and spread her, gliding into the spaces of his life).

"Hasn't he got you well trained" He pushes off the desk, the only slip of irritation, and looks down at her, with his sharp blue eyes that Elizabeth wishes to look away from – but that's an impossible action. "Here's the deal, let me in and I'll repay you later"

Elizabeth's eyes flicker to his clear palms unconsciously. Wickham catches the motion and raises his eyebrows. (Another act incomparable to Darcy) "His name is Oliver, don't flatter yourself. And I'm offended that you had me down as sex – driven"

Her chin tilts up defiantly, forest eyes flashing and he pauses. Un-Expectantly coiling back a pulse. "It was an easy mistake, you reputation precedes you. I'm surprised, considering you _have _your…"

"It's complicated" He cuts her. His eyes rushing in return with a grip of his right palm; where his name burns deeply, etching them together. "I was just going to get you a tea or something, okay? Nothing sexually suggestive"  
He glances at the door. She's unwittingly raised his problem to the surface like grit in a wound – tearing and scratching until the ooze trickles and the tears are left to sting in unwanted waves.

"I've known Darcy since I was two, that's twenty four years of torture; and I've come to quite enjoy it. So, my name is on that list _as a joke. _You're going to ring him and ask" He pushes the phone across the desk with his left hand. He's cradling his right hand into the pocket of his suit, allowing the warm comforting material to sooth and lathe over the mark; gently protecting.  
Unwillingly so.

"I honestly can't disturb him"

"Oh, I honestly don't care" He encloses her fingers around the receiver.

—X—

Darcy is lying on the floor. For him, it's the same as the dandle of a mother and an off-kilter child.  
It's a weak string, pulling and grounding him back to his childhood. The vivid blurring colours of expression and freedom. The joy, the laughter, the running, and the ignorance. No world outside of yours. No life beyond yours. No sun to roll around the earth – just around _your _sphere.  
(Sleeps at night and sings during the day).

His head tilts when he hears his phone going. He knows it's Elizabeth and something dangerously close to the wire catches in his throat. He sits, his hair slightly ruffled, his neck hurting from the two books he's been using as a pillow. His eyes train themselves to the phone.  
He could just not answer, but he can't do that. That would imply he is ignoring her, and he simply can't do that. Out of all the things, he can't do that.  
He wants her to know, to feel this, but he's not there yet.

"Hello? Elizabeth?" He picks it up with his right hand, palm cradling the moulded plastic tenderly. His voice is rougher (weaker with non – use. The endless nights pacing the floorboards of the living room. The silent haunting of his safe – place. Even there feels violated by all thoughts of _her_)

"Mr. Darcy, there is a Mr. Wickham here to see you" His eyes close at the sound of her voice, his breath relaxes out of his system for a moment before he blinks up again.

It's nothing more than that string. Gently weaving itself, a conductor's baton during the adagio, flowing to the rhythm. Down, side, across, side, down, side, across, side. Feathering, controlling everything. Pulling and stretching, the clench of the arm – the movement of the elbow.  
Nothing more than a building pulse.  
But everything to keep going.

"What have I told you about the lists…?"

"Yes, I know, but please; he won't _leave_"

The grate in her voice causes him to pause, and expand.  
"Send him in"

Elizabeth gaze flicks back up to Wickham. He smiles triumphantly, stepping a dancing lilt towards the door to Darcy's office and pushing it open as Darcy hangs up.  
Darcy manages to make it back behind his desk as Wickham shuts the door, his skin pulled down in a frown, his dark sleeves rolled up to the elbows – digging into the hard solid oak. A dig and pain, but something there to keep him grounded.

"I'm starting to get offended by that list, Darcy"

_So, it's this kind of Wickham today. _He rubs at his forehead, pushing the skin with thumb and forefinger, feeling himself rapidly wearing thin.

"What is it Wickham? It better be an 8/10 or else"

"It's Ollie" Wickham's eyes cool, fading down until he's there. Business minded, sitting down opposite Darcy and eyeing him. He looks worn. Weathered. Wickham nods, knows not to bring it up now.

"What have you done to him?"

"He wants me to meet his parents"

Darcy's chair twitches a spin threateningly. "Get out"

"This is really important"  
Wickham grips the edge of Darcy's desk unconsciously, an action to counter-act Darcy trying to move away. He glances at the other man, his blue eyes serious and clouding. Darcy hesitates and swings back.

"You've _met _his parents. You practically lived at his house as a child, why is this important?"

"_Things _are different"

They are. Wickham knows they are; they have been for a long time.  
He knows (_really knows_) Darcy doesn't understand that. Doesn't understand what this means to him.  
The click and the shift of their relationship unfolding between them, pulling further apart with each day. Things had been comfortable, they had floated, bobbed beside each other for so long – and now he feels disjointed. Free and alone and falling.  
Falling horribly, screaming and there's no one.

"Either say it or go, Wickham, because I have a lot to sort out. I'm not sure if you can see it, but I run this company, and I'm not in the mood to sort out your girlish problems. So if you think that I will just –"

"I don't… Just listen!" He's desperate. Darcy stops. "I know it's always been platonic on my part. But I, recently… I don't know, okay! I don't know what to do or feel, we've known each other for a long long time, and I can't just _screw _this up. So please help me, because you've known me longest, and God knows why but I value your opinion"

With a penetrating glance, Darcy deems this worth his limited time. He stands and heads for a corner bookshelf – scanning the contents for a minute. It's a corner he doesn't visit. It sits behind him so he doesn't have to face it. Only once, when he enters the office in the morning. He kids himself that he'll forget it's there – but he never does. (Especially not now, not when he passes her in the morning. Presenting a tea for her from the Muffin-Break, pushing it towards her. She flicks her eyes to him. Smiles. And then moves away again).

Darcy Frisbees two books towards him, Wickham catches each lopsidedly and sets them down, lining them up side by side on the desk. "Start with the blue one – then read the other"

"What are they?"

"One's an analysis. The other is _Spider Webs _by G.H. Indigo"

"Is that how you plan on helping me?" His tone isn't cold. It can't be, not with Darcy. They both know that unspoken element of this. They've both moulded the other, and they can't be angry. Not now, after all this time.

"Look, Wickham, you're an idiot. You love him, he loves you. Read the damn books, it may give you an idea on how to approach it"

"Some friend you are. I don't like it when you're grouchy" Wickham grumbles, fingering the spine of the analysis with veiled interest. Darcy settles back to him and makes a show of pulling forward a pen and a post-it note (Green. Elizabeth had started to take them from the bottom of the pack)

"I have a lot of work to do. A lot of thinking to do"

Wickham watches him carefully, the material of the bands on Darcy's hands pulling and stretching across the skin. "Oh, I forgot the rest of us mere mortals _don't _have a lot of thinking to do"

"You can leave now if you're quite done"

"I want to know what's wrong"

Darcy is back to watching him, his elbow on the desk. He jolts suddenly, prematurely, as he presses just wrong and pain shoots upwards. "And I want to be left alone"

"Your secretary, Miss. Bennet seems nic –"

"_Don't_"

There it is. The flat warning that Wickham had been hoping to find. They often play this game. Guess-what's-wrong-with-Darcy.  
Guess-until-he-spikes.  
He hadn't expected it to come so soon. It was slightly surprising, really.

"Don't what?"

"You know what"

"No. No, I don't think I do"

"_Yes_, you do. Just get out"

"Not until you've told me what's wrong"

"Go"

"Why?"

"Why? Because this is _my _office, and I need to _work_"

"I'm staying _right here _until you tell me"

"Go. Just leave"

"No"

"Go"

"I told you, I'm staying rig –"

"She's my soul-mate! Happy? You're _so_annoying"

Pause.

"You didn't tell me"

"I didn't tell _her" _

—X—

"How are you finding it at Darcy Publishing?" Charlie smiles at her kindly, although everything Charlie has ever done for her is kindly. Elizabeth looks up from coiling spaghetti casually around her fork. He's watching her in the warm light – spewing half from the kitchen and half from the living room, mixing in the small space in the middle where she has placed a small table. A makeshift divide in her tiny flat, speckled with miss-matched candles.

"It's fine. It's, I mean… not _good_, but fine" She shoots him a smile, going back to her task.

"It seems a bit daunting at first"

"It's not that. Well it is that, but Darcy has been _really _great" Jane looks at her, pausing in her position of pouring the wine – half leant over the table, her blonde hair flickering close to a candle. Charlie looks up to thank her, deciding instead to tuck the piece of hair behind her ear and away.  
Elizabeth misses everything, her eyes still on her plate – twisting the spaghetti into oblivion, torturing the strips until the topic is _off_her.

"It's just not what you want to do. I understand" Charlie again, always accommodating. Trying to be understanding even if he can't understand. Even then, tries to see everything rightly. Justly.  
It used to aggravate Elizabeth at first – she thought it was ignorance. Until she realised it was _just Charlie. _

"Exactly. I don't think I could do this knowing I would be someone's secretary forever"

Jane tucks herself back into her seat, dragging some bread to ripple through the excess sauce. Elizabeth doesn't have a washing machine, it's easier to try and make the hand washing as relaxing as possible. "I'm sure it'll be fine once you settle in. Meet some new people"

"You _know_no one likes me there, Jane"

"That's not true!"

Elizabeth spikes the fork into her mouth, pulling off the spaghetti as Charlie stands – turning to collect the dishes. "It is! They hate me because I just walked in and suddenly get access to Darcy every day. They resent me"

"They'll get over it. People resented me at first. And Wickham"  
The flat was so small they could see him in the kitchen, his red hair fiery under the white beamed lights. He set the tap running, returning for the plates.

"I ran into Wickham today, actually. He _demanded _to be seen by Darcy, even though his name was _not _on the list I follow"

"Elizabeth Bennet, following the rules" Jane teases, handing Charlie all three plates absentmindedly, her eyes on her sisters – refusing to drop contact until Elizabeth feels the pressure is too much and looks away. Her face inflaming.

Jane flicks her eyes to Charlie's back, now slaving over the plates. The splash, rub and clunk of the cutlery. "You _like _him" She hisses, a grin spreading across her face. Elizabeth's eyes connect to hers alarmingly, before pulling away. Relaxing. Allowing her heart to settle again.

"Who? Wickham? _No way_"

"No, _Darcy_"

"Jane, no"

"You do! You so do! This is amazing"

Jane leans back, resting back in her patio chair, her fingers pulling themselves together and apart again. Elizabeth leans forwards, both elbows on the table. Her heart is clenching in her stomach, and an unfamiliar whine pricks to the right side of her brain. Something nagging and panicking (And Oh, God, Jane has to understand this)  
A brilliant light passes between her eyes as she leans towards her sister; closeness bringing the point faster to home. Elizabeth grapples with her position, shifting uncomfortable, urgently. Her eyes boring into Jane's – praying she can understand. _Know _how she feels.  
But she never can, Jane has her mate. Jane has Charlie.  
And Elizabeth has no one.

"He's seen my palms, Jane! This is not _it_. Not _him. _I may like him, but I'm never going to act on it. You know how I feel about this. I won't, can't, be with anyone but _Him_"

"It doesn't have to be serious…"

"He's _not_ my damn name"

—X—

Wickham and Oliver's flat is clean cut. Everything Elizabeth's isn't. Hers in a well-read novel, pages augmented and dog eared. Theirs is well worked up, but subtly. Everything is placed. Laboured over, right down to the slant of a cushion – height of a picture compared to the fireplace, the bookshelves, everything. It is Oliver's work. It's always been that way. Everything always has to have its place, and it's something that Wickham has always been warm towards.

"Is this completely necessary?"

Darcy's lying on a chaise lounge. Wickham is sitting in a chair adjacent, a clipboard in hand.

"Yes. We're going to do this properly" He nods, angling his body slightly towards his friend's. He's free to call Darcy that now. Out of work, and extending a helping hand; however unwelcome. (He dragged Darcy home after work. He is going to help, to make things right. It isn't just that (Wickham can't even conceal that from himself). He doesn't want to be alone to face Oliver. There are questions, but they are silent whilst Darcy is there)

"We don't have to do it at all"

Wickham ignores him, clearing his throat and tilting his chin towards Darcy. He makes a show of uncapping his pen – angling it towards the magazine he has clipped onto the board. He won't write on it. He wouldn't dare, it's one of Oliver's and he knows the consequences of that. "Tell me your deepest worries"

There's a shuffle from the side. "Don't do that accent" Oliver looks up from his position on his knees, relaxing the tension building up there. He places down the glue, moving away from his work on a scaled model of a house he's designing. The ground works: their coffee table.

Wickham flickers his eyes towards Oliver's grey ones, unable to hold them and moving back to Darcy. "How long have you known about her?"

"Since the first day"

"_Three weeks? _Why haven't you told her?"

"It's not that simple" Darcy shifts, trying to sit up but Wickham pushes him back down with a strong hand on his chest.

"It sounds pretty simple"

"Play _nicely_" Oliver bites at his soul mate.

"I can't just do it! I _can't. _I just…" Darcy sighs deeply and rubs into his eyes, self – consciously pushing himself back into his seat. "I'm not… _good_… at exposing myself to others, you know that. If I do this… it's the biggest thing I'll ever do, and just like your problem, I can't afford to screw this up.  
I'm not ready"


End file.
